


Home/cooked

by Liara_90



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mass Effect 3, Noodle Incidents, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Sam smells something homecooked while working aboard theNormandy.A simple, slice-of-life Shaynor ficlet.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Samantha Traynor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Home/cooked

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was inspired by [a prompt answered by Ren](https://renwritesstuff.tumblr.com/post/190551406621/otp-question-meme-22-for-shaynor-please-ooooh) on her Tumblr. And, obviously, the entirety of [_Queen’s Gambit Accepted_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/821407), the One Shaynor Fic to Rule Them All. (Though the Shepard herein is (mostly) my own.)

* * *

Sam’s nose twitched.

Samantha Traynor had learned many things during her time at Oxford. The fundamentals of quantum entanglement theory. The application of neural networks to statistical analysis. What kind of concealer best hid the fact that you’d pulled an all-nighter writing Professor Paquetá’s term paper. But, most importantly, it had taught her the dark art of sniffing out free food.

Money had always been tight, even with the full scholarship the Alliance had ensnared her with. To a girl from a small colony in the Terminus, everything on Earth had seemed _exorbitantly_ expensive, and England doubly so. And thus, like university students from one end of the galaxy to the other, Traynor had developed an instinct for finding any catered event on campus, one which would’ve done her hunter-gatherer ancestors proud. God knew how many lectures, visiting speaker series, and club recruitment events she’d drifted in and out of in search of those little tea sandwiches the English were so fond of.

Which was why Sam - despite being half-asleep and having her head buried in her omni-tool - stopped dead in her tracks. She’d been neck-deep in the patch notes of the latest Ariake Q-Queue Protocol release, and it took her conscious mind a half-second to remember exactly where she was:

Milky Way → Serpent Nebula → Widow System → The Citadel → Dock 422 → SSV _Normandy_ SR-2 → Deck 2 → Outside the conference room

Because right there, something smelled _good_.

The glass on the conference room’s walls had been privacy-frosted, which usually meant that it was in active use. _But_ the internal _Normandy_ calendar didn’t show any diplomatic summits scheduled for the day. The room was even available to book, had she had a need for such a space. Which meant that it was either (a) free or (b) being used to host a meeting of such diplomatic sensitivities that the Alliance didn’t want to risk even putting it on the shipboard calendar.

Sam’s brow furrowed, as she mentally ran a quick risk/reward calculation in her head. On the one hand, she’d been living on nothing but those godforsaken blueberry protein bars for the better part of a week now. On the other, she might be interrupting a meeting so above her security clearance that’d she spent the rest of the war playing solitaire in the brig.

Her stomach silenced the debate with a growl. With the same sort of courage that her ancestors would have hunted woolly mammoths with, Sam tapped a button on the door’s console, and slipped inside.

The room looked pretty much like it always did. Waxed floors, polished tabletop. The window opposite her, which usually showed a brilliant starscape, was presently facing a dull steel wall of the docking bay. A handful of chairs - of a modular design that could be adjusted to most species’ ergonomic needs - ringed the table, all currently in their default ‘human adult’ configuration. The table itself was clear, except for a large plate positioned at the head of the table. Behind which sat-

“Oh, um… Commander. I didn’t see you were in here.”

Command Shepard, Spectre, Savior of the Citadel, Last Bloody Hope Against the Reapers, raised an eyebrow. “And why was that, Specialist?” she asked, in that cool tone of voice that usually presaged gunfire.

_‘Why does Shepard sound annoyed?’_

“Because the privacy settings on the glass were…” Sam swallowed, as her brain caught up with her mouth. “... which usually means that whoever is inside doesn’t want to be disturbed, of course, but there was nothing on the _Normandy_ ’s calendar and…” she felt herself withering under Shepard’s unflinching gaze “...and I was wondering if someone had left some food unattended, which would be _terrible_ for a conference room…”

_‘You’re babbling Sam.’_

_‘True, but Shepard can’t yell at us as long as we don’t stop…’_

“... what with all the inter-species delegates, and all their olfactory sensitivities, to say nothing of us humans with food allergies and… um… is that chicken pulao?”

The conference room was quiet enough that Sam could hear the low _hum_ of the _Normandy_ ’s HVAC system.

Shepard crossed her arms in front of her, a few red hairs drifting in front of her eyes. “Do you recognize it, Specialist?”

“O-of course,” Sam sputtered, blinking at her momentary reprieve. “Mum used to cook it all the time. Or something like it, anyways. How on earth did you get some here?”

Sam had once searched the Citadel for any proper Indian restaurants, during a pique of homesickness, but the handful of ones that _did_ exist always seemed to be located about as far away from Dock 422 as the constrictions of Euclidean geometry allowed. You couldn’t even get any _delivered_ to the _Normandy_ , because all food deliveries needed to be cleared for both security _and_ biocontamination purposes. The only human-targeted restaurants that met those criteria were a sushi joint, an Italian place, and a Volus delivery service that had somehow cornered the market for Chicago-style deep-dish pizza.

“What can I say? We Spectres have our ways.”

Without thinking, Sam slipped into the chair adjacent to Shepard’s. Her fear of imminent reprimand was quickly fading, and her growling stomach had returned with a vengeance. Sam caught herself as she caught Shepard’s eye, emerald green and with that keen, appraising glint to it. Shepard was a difficult woman to read at the best of times, even after sharing her shower (and her bed), and even now Sam wasn’t quite sure what was going through her head... 

“.... would you like to try some?”

Shepard’s tone was casual, _relaxed_ even, but the rest of her body wasn’t. She sat a little hunched over, arms still crossed in an almost-defensive stance. She was scratching at her arm, a nervous habit Traynor had long ago taken note of.

Sam inched closer to the table, her chair scraping against the floor as she did. “Oh, um… I’d love to, Commander. But, um…” that dreaded eyebrow rose on Shepard’s brow again “... a lot of restaurants put onions in-”

“-no onions,” Shepard said, cutting off Sam’s first objection.

“You’re sure?” Sam asked. “Because unless you want your communications specialist to be speaking with a swollen tongue all day, amusing as that might be-”

Shepard gently held her palms up, slowing Sam down. “ _No onions_ ,” Shepard reiterated. “The recipe substituted in leeks.” She paused a beat. “Also no shellfish, no nuts, and the yoghurt is some lactose-free alternative that’s supposed to be as good as the real thing.”

Sam sat, momentarily stunned as what would have been her three immediate questions were preemptively answered. In the corner of Shepard’s mouth, Sam caught the slightest tug of a grin.

“Well… in that case…”

Shepard slid her plate forward, the dish seeming to glide across the polished surface of the conference table, a few yellow grains of rice left in its wake. With a short inhale, Sam picked up Shepard’s fork and spoon _(‘can’t exactly worry about germs after what we’ve already swapped’)_ , scraped them against the plate, and took her first mouthful…

...and it was like she was ten years old and back on Horizon. Like she was nineteen and her parents were visiting her at Oxford for the first time...

...Like she was _home_.

“So…” Shepard leaned forward, catching Sam’s eyes as they slowly drifted open again. “What do you think?”

The taste was so good that Sam didn’t even worry about the intensity of Shepard’s focus. Sam could cook for herself competently enough - her parents wouldn’t have let her off Horizon otherwise – but her dishes always lacked that certain _je ne sais quoi_ that actually made meals like this one so amazing. “This is absolutely _incredible_ , Shepard,” she replied, as soon as she’d swallowed her first mouthful. “You _have_ to tell me where you ordered this from, it practically tastes _homemade_.” 

And then Shepard leaned back, hands folded behind her head, that devilish grin slowly spreading across her face. “Who says I ordered it, Specialist?”

Sam had already spooned in another mouthful before she finished parsing Shepard’s sentence. Her eyes cast about, belatedly noticing the suspicious absence of any take-out containers or branded delivery bags. Nothing but the usual injection-mold crockery of the _Normandy_ ’s kitchenette. And then she looked up, eyes wide, at the smuggest of smug smiles Shepard was wearing.

“ _Bullshifft-_ ” she blurted out, grains of rice flying from her mouth as she did.

Shepard leaned forward, elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. “Come now, Traynor, you don’t think an N7 can figure out how to cook a basic dish?”

“But… but…” Sam sputtered, mind wheeling for several seconds before it found a fact to latch on to. And then she snapped her fingers, jabbing one accusingly at her commanding officer. “We all remember Tali’s birthday.”

The smug look vanished from Shepard’s face, immediately replaced with a sulk worthy of Achilles in his tent. “ _One time_ ,” Shepard growled. “Garrus _swore_ he knew the recipe to a dextro cake, and _I’m_ the one everyone blames for that.” She sunk back in her chair, arms crossed.

Sam laughed despite herself. “I’m pretty sure Gardner was scraping pieces off the ceiling for a week.” She spooned in another mouthful, savoring the simple taste of home. “Speaking of… didn’t he _ban_ you all from using any appliances in the mess hall?”

“I was able to put my crack diplomatic skills to work and negotiate an outcome both parties found satisfactory,” Shepard replied, adopting her most tactful tone.

“ _Mmmh_?” Sam inquired, mid-bite.

“I simply informed Gardner that if he didn’t let me practice cooking, I would have no choice but to host a ship wide potluck next time we were in interstellar space.” She paused a beat. “With _mandatory_ participation. Donnelly was with me, and he sounded quite eager to share his famous haggis recipe.”

Sam paled. “ _Surely_ you were bluffing.”

“I never bluff. And don’t call me _Shirley_.” Shepard’s grin was downright _predatory_ at that point.

“But, Shepard… _why_?”

That uncomfortable silence returned for several seconds, as Shepard’s mouth resumed it’s naturally neutral state. She idly pressed a fingertip to a grain of rice on the table, which stuck to her digit as she lifted it. “It’s… fun,” she finally said, as if admitting to something awkward and embarrassing. “Cooking, I mean. For most of my life a _‘cooked meal_ ’ meant something you nuked in the microwave for thirty seconds. Turns out I actually sort of enjoy food when it doesn’t come in a wrapper.”

Shepard shrugged, which prompted Sam to reach out and rest a hand on her shoulder, very gently. Shepard didn’t shrug her off. “Well, let me say that this _more_ than makes up for the dextro cake incident. Even if you’ll never live that down.”

Shepard snorted out a small laugh. “I really owe Gardner a drink. Or four.”

Sam grinned, thankful to have elicited one of her commander’s oh-so-rare laughs. Her fingers found the fringes of Shepard’s hair, brushing them thoughtlessly.

“And I’m _extra_ thankful that you decided to practice cooking with actual Indian cuisine.” It suddenly clicked. “Is _that_ why you were hidden away in the conference room, with the walls all tinted?”

Shepard let out a sheepish grin. “Yeah. I was hoping to get a few more chances to practice before you caught on and graded me. I think this still came out too dry.”

“Commander, it’s absolutely perfect, I promise you,” Sam reassured her. “And besides, it’s bloody _impossible_ to find proper Indian food outside of human space. Where _did_ you get the recipe from?”

“Oh, that was easy,” Shepard replied. “I just called up Mrs. Suresh-Traynor and asked her what your favorite comfort food was.”

Sam blinked. “You called… you called my _mum_?”

“Hm? Yeah, a few days ago. She sent me a bunch of your favorites, actually, which I want to work on as soon as I have this down pat. Oh, and some photos of you trying to help her out around the kitchen when you were a kid. That chef hat on you was _very cute_ , Traynor.”

Sam tried to move her mouth, but no words came out.

“Are you going to finish that?” Shepard pulled the remnants of their shared meal back towards herself, eagerly scooping up whatever Sam hadn’t finished.

“Actually, hold on, I should be able to get the photos on my omni-tool. I want to ask you about this chess one.”

The dextro cake no longer seemed so impossible to live down, if only in comparison.

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure - I don’t know anything about cooking, let alone cooking Indian cuisine, so my apologies in advance for any discrepancies or shortcoming on that front. The gist of the recipe Shepard uses comes from “[How To Make Chicken Pulao At Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7jIXT8mCAc)” by [Get Curried](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChYpOn9tfcJkfjq7e0KaAhw), with a few changes to accommodate for Samantha’s allergies. Several other plot elements were ~~stolen~~ borrowed without permission from _Queen’s Gambit Accepted_ , and one of Shepard’s better lines is a paraphrasing of [_Airplane!_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airplane!)
> 
> Feedback of any sort is welcomed, comments are appreciated whenever you find this fic. Your reviews and readership are appreciated.
> 
> No, I still can’t do titles.
> 
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